


Echo

by alba17



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen mourns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> For scripps' comment_fic prompt, Katie/Owen, laughter.

Owen brought in the paper and set it on the table. Katie looked at him, gave him a shaky smile as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the forehead. In the past, he would have asked her how her day was. Now there was no point. He just squeezed her tight and told her about something funny one of the nurses had said while he was doing his rounds.

She looked at him blankly, that querulous smile playing on her lips again. His heart clenched.

A few months ago she would have laughed. She would have greeted him with a big bright smile, told him about her day, and shared her own stories. Later they might have watched a comedy on the telly, curled together on the sofa drinking a glass of wine. Her laugh would have burst out again, free and easy, contagious, catching him in its spangly net. Her eyes would have sparkled at him in the darkened room, the night ending in tangled, sweaty limbs and long, sweet kisses.

Instead he busied himself throwing a frozen dinner in the microwave. He ignored the way she threw down the paper after a moment's confused look.

"Well, we've got spaghetti that tastes like cardboard or fish that tastes like paste. Pick your poison," he said.

One look at her face and he knew she couldn't answer. It was getting worse by the day. His mouth filled with bitterness and he made a mental note to schedule another appointment for her in the morning.

He pulled the vodka out of the freezer. After debating on a mixer, he threw a shot down his throat neat. It was harsh on his tongue, but bracing. He'd give her the spaghetti and save the fish for another day. He tossed the cardboard carton back in the freezer.

When the microwave dinged, he pulled her to the kitchen table and set her down. "Come on, love. Eat up." He sat across from her with his glass and placed the vodka bottle within easy reach. She dutifully forked up the limp pasta as he watched. It took about two minutes, in which time he downed a full glass of vodka. He didn't feel normal, not by a long shot, but at least he was numb.

Numb enough to pretend things were the way they were before, anyway. The alcoholic brightness hid the dark, spongy future. Katie's features were bland, pleasing in their lack of expression. The vodka ate like acid at his stomach as he watched the strands of pasta disappear between her lips. A despicable thought slid through his mind, that her mind might be gone, but her body could still please.

Bloody hell, he was a prick. 

He loved her. Of that, he was sure. And no one was going to take her away from him, not even this fucking disease. 

There had to be a way, some way to save her. He'd find it. God damn it, he would.


End file.
